The Eyes
by Shadenight123
Summary: Harry Potter saw things. Many things didn't gaze back. Harry Potter heard things. Many things didn't listen back. Five pitiful senses were not enough to gaze into the deep abyss, but with magic being magic a sixth sense is more than enough to see what humans were never meant to see. Harry Potter and the Cthulhu Mythos clash.
1. Arkham

_**The Eyes**_

The faces smiled. The glassy eyes looked. They watched. He gripped the long sleeves of the overly portly muffler and covered his face to hide his self from the eyes. The eyes always watched. The noses breathed in and out. He didn't understand their words. He remained quiet. His corner was his. He looked through with his bright green eyes from the crack in the door.

The door wasn't his. It belonged to the portly man who always screamed when he saw him. He heard the voices. The voices always talked. One man was different. The people talked some more. There was something different about that man. He didn't look at the portly owner of his door, and yet he looked.

The man looked at him. It looked at Harry.

Harry Potter looked back, even though he knew it was stupid to look back at people. He knew the man couldn't see him, not through the small crack. Yet the man could. The man saw. The man smiled. The man that wasn't a man looked and smiled.

Cold, shivering winds ruffled his hair. Unblinking those glassy eyes that hid a truth beyond that of the world stared at him for but a second more than eternity, and yet a minute less than nothing. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. His childish mind refused to understand and the man who wasn't a man understood that he couldn't understand.

He could watch. He could touch. He could smell. He could hear. He could taste. He couldn't understand what went beyond those five meagre senses. He couldn't accept. He couldn't understand.

Harry could not scream from a mouth that wasn't his own. He couldn't tremble and push his body back against the wall on the other side of his dark and cranky room. He couldn't…and yet he did because the thing beyond the door, the thing beyond the crack, was not of this world and was not of another.

That thing went beyond reality, past and present.

He didn't understand that.

No, all that Harry Potter, of Privet Drive Number Four understood, from his dingy place under the cupboard, was that things lived and lurked beneath the façade of normality.

The things…the things that slept, that lived, that dreamt…they were better left undiscovered.

Forever.

Six years later, Harry Potter didn't say a word as an owl deposited a letter in his hands. He wondered how an owl could have entered Arkham. He wondered how such a beautiful and white owl could have entered the sin of madness and found the den of madmen. The lunatics weren't lunatics, but just people who saw too much.

He had seen too much. He still was seeing too much.

"Potter," the rattling of his cage's door pushed him against the wall. He didn't want to go outside, under the stares. He would have to stare back. He would have to stare at the sack of flesh that weren't filled with flesh.

They couldn't force him. They wouldn't force him.

"Potter," the voice rasped, sickening claws that weren't claws but fingers lunged forward to grip the scruff of his neck with a speed beyond that of the world. "When I call, you answer."

Rotten and fetid smell came from the creature's throat. The nausea overpowered Harry's face, the skin turning a sickening green. Skin couldn't turn green. The world didn't care.

"Potter," the creature that was a human in an overweight body, with dirt and grease over his nurse suit, said once more.

"Present," Harry hissed back. "I am Potter."

"Follow," the creature moved, and Harry did as the monster said. He was safer in Arkham than outside. Safer with the monsters that held on to an inkling of humanity than outside, where the true monsters laid in wait and licked their fangs from the hunger.

"You have a visitor."

The door rattled open once more, this one led into the visitors' hall. Only puppets guided by invisible strings sat there. Old women filled with cheap perfume, lunatics that weren't meant to be anything less than a show, actors who held no souls. There was nothing of real in there. There was nothing except for a single old man with a long beard and a pair of twinkling eyes. The man wore a large yellow canary suit. It was too bright for his eyes.

It was too bright for the eyes of everyone else.

"Ah, Harry," the voice was soft and kind, elderly. He saw no pretention behind the words. The voice was kind because it was a voice. It was a voice that wasn't birthed from the mouth of a creature, its teeth were human and the tongue was pink. It was the voice of a human. He wept in joy, the dark icy needles in his heart and body thrummed as the agony of loneliness quivered and melted.

He wasn't alone in the world. There was a human there.

Harry sat eager to watch and hear. He smelled the scent of lemons, he heard the sound of breathing and he saw the chest move up and down in the old man's body. The stale air of Arkham did not last long around the man. It came close, its wickedness and depravity moving like a tentacle hungry for flesh, and then it left.

It left smelling of lemon.

"Would you like a lemon drop, Harry?"

He didn't know what a lemon drop was. He knew what a lemon was. He nodded. It was the first time a human gave him something.

Small, soft and bubbly yellow confetti covered in a thin plastic wrap dropped into his awaiting hands. He moved them closer to his face and smelled deeply, the scent of lemon overpowering his senses. He unwrapped one, bringing it to his mouth.

He liked it. He liked it very much.

"That's the first time anyone had a reaction so strong to a lemon drop," the old man said. "Would you like more, Harry? Would you like to come with me?"

Harry frowned. His lips curled up. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice coming out like a whip cracking leather. "Things follow me."

"Things, Harry?"

"Strange things," Harry nodded. "They follow. No, they are always there. I just see them. When I see them, they exist. They exist before I see them, but they exist also after. They exist more after I see them."

"I'm afraid I do not understand, child," the old man said. "Can you make an example?"

Harry bit his lips. "If I do, will you still bring me with you?"

"Of course, my boy, you have my word," the man replied. "I would not have left you here in any circumstance. An asylum isn't the place for someone like you."

Harry gripped his knees with the palm of his hands. "They are puppets," he whispered. "The old lady that stinks of oil and ricin is empty inside. The man who brought me here is not human. The man next to the door is a monster. They are all creatures. They devoured their innards. They aren't meant to be."

The old man frowned. "My child?"

"They do not blink," Harry continued. "They do not breathe, drink, eat, properly talk or walk. They walk, but not well enough. They are not real. They are more than real. I see them," he whispered. "I see their shadows at night dance under the pale light of death's candle, and I'm afraid. Afraid…"

A sixteen year old would have been able to speak in such a way. At eleven with his shoddy and gaunt appearance, the words that Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizardry world, spoke were starting to make the back of Dumbledore's beard rise.

His eyes moved to the woman, whose lips now seemed filled with crooked and yellow teeth beyond normal. The stench of rot filled his nose, and his hand went to his wand's handle just as it had many years before, while venturing into the depths of Nurmengard with brave other souls to cast out Gellert from his home.

The Statute of Secrecy seemed unimportant. He, Albus Dumbledore, with full intentions to get out of there as fast as humanly possible, gripped tightly onto Harry Potter's near skeletal hand and apparated away.

A moment later, and he would have watched things appear from the doorway and the walls. Things not meant to be described to the human's eyes.

Things that lurked, slobbered and whined. Things sniffed the air and wobbled forth. Things…woke and moved.

Harry Potter cried.

A soft bed covered him. It menaced to devour and ingest his body and spit out but the bones. Paintings looked at him with oily eyes that moved filled with something he could not and would not comprehend. The grimy windows looked shiny, although the rocks dripped with drops of water and viscous filth.

Dark, cold and alone it waited deep below for someone to talk with.

He didn't want to wake it from its slumber.

He wanted his cell.

He wanted the monsters that were humans once. He could not stand. He wanted to walk. He could not walk. He could touch the feathery pillow and he could smell the soap. He was clean. His skin was unblemished. He could not understand.

He didn't want to understand.

Harry Potter wanted to speak with the yellow human.

He didn't want to speak with that which hid itself below. He didn't want to speak with the things around the castle of Hogwarts.

He had ears that weren't ears and eyes that weren't eyes, and so he could do naught but watch what he didn't want to watch and hear what he didn't want to hear.

He wept until he fell asleep.

Another day would come. Unfortunately, another day would come.

**Author's notes**

**Cthulhu meet Harry Potter.**

**Harry Potter, meet Cthulhu.**

**Giggles for everyone.**


	2. Yig, Father of Serpents

The Eyes

Chapter Two

The castle burned of flames that did not exist. The clouds moved of unseen winds and whispers. There was no God. It was sad, it was impossible, but it was the truth. The God wasn't. God wasn't dead. He never was. The Elder Gods. The Outer Gods. The Ancient Gods. They were. They existed. The mere knowledge drove Harry away from the window. _Forbidden_. It was unquestionable.

It had to remain down. That knowledge never had to see the light of the day, the heat of his mouth or the throat. The crimson tongue would not snake out the truth hidden in his brain. Through the mindless thoughts of a shredded soul the truth would not drop.

He was the key, the lock, the door, and the breeze that pushed it ajar. He would not let it open.

He would not point his finger. He would not talk.

Not to him. Never to him.

The forest whispered. He didn't want to hear, but he could not deafen ears he did not possess. The animals shuddered of shrieks that left all unsaid…and yet all revealed bare for his eyes to watch.

The castle was cold and uncaring. Its stones held discontent. Its form was dark and gloom. It cried through the cracks, wishing for heat. The furnace roared from the depths of its bellowing pits, the creaking stairs rumbled and moved like titans of old, carrying thunder and dust wherever they went.

The eyes watched and whispered as he walked alone the empty hallways. The floor was cold for his bare feet, but he did not feel the cold. The scorching hot called, the bellowing glare yelled. The tentacles of the many hissed. They clicked all beyond the door, the door that was ajar and wasn't meant to be.

Why, oh why had he pushed the door?

He could have died in the suffocating bed. He could have let his life wane away in the fetid and morbid embrace of those overbearing covers. The voice sang. The voice called.

It wasn't a voice, but the shrieks of thousand tiny pinpricks against his skin. It wasn't a soft caress on the skin, but the putrid stench of rot that burdened his nostrils.

Down the stairs he went. The marble and the stone obeyed an unspoken command, their wish one and the same. He moved slowly, the paintings watching, the armours glaring. The sun hidden by half-dead clouds was unwilling to move, while the air stale and still within the walls had dust floating through its bloated body.

Who would ever claim to know that all was only because of chaos and chance? The man had spoken with voices not his own. Crawling flesh and too much, too much memory to go with! No, Harry shook his head firmly. He would not remember.

He refused knowledge. He refused to understand.

He would not understand the insistence of the voice.

He would follow, he would find, but he didn't want to.

There was no choice. Human's nature was of curiosity, and quashing it in made it come back, stronger than ever. Maybe it was the voice. He could fault the voice. The voice that talked, spoke, whispered and shredded doubt. The voice called to him, and he had to see. He had to gaze. He had to find.

In Arkham, he could not move. He could not reach for the voices of the swamp, of the sea. He could not find them. Now he could move. He could travel. The voices called and he didn't want to move, but he had no choice.

"Nay," a painting mumbled, "Ay!" another whispered. "Nay me says!" "Ay me goes!"

Harry stopped. The air was colder, quieter. There wasn't a sound. The two paintings stopped bickering. They returned to their silence as he stepped through. The stairs led down, in a spiral that seemed to never end. The light was dim, and it grew dimmer as he went beneath the castle's floor. Into the dungeons, he ventured on his bare feet.

His toes were unresponsive. His breath came hitched. He didn't want to go. Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. The soft dead hands of curiosity gripped at the scruff of his neck, pulling him forward with the strength of undying realization. He could not resist the calling.

He stepped further down; the sound of bubbling mixed with the smell of _something_ caught his attention. The air had just been cold until then, but now it was something. Harry looked with curiosity at the door slightly ajar from where light, brighter than that of the corridor, came through.

He shouldn't look.

The last time he looked, things had gone bad. He shouldn't look through doors not meant for him.

"Harry Potter should follow the voice," a squeaky voice said from a corner. "Harry Potter shouldn't disturb Professor Snape."

Harry paled, looking around. There was no one. There was nothing. Harry took a step away from the door, but his cold feet touched something real, something living, something scrawny that was behind him and Harry screamed and knelt, his hands to his ears and his body small like a tiny rock.

The door banged open with a surprising strong push, and a dark haired man with a big hawk-like nose and a dark glare walked out. Harry didn't see the features of Professor Snape, but he could see them all the same. He didn't want to, but closing his eyes and keeping him from watching were different. They weren't the same thing any longer.

The man was a bubbling pool of worried scornful colours, weaving themselves into patterns of self-loathing and deprecation. They twisted and pulled at the seams of his being, forming a chain and a shackle to an ideal, one he could not let go of, and that he would never drop. In his crusty, iron and shackled spiky form, he was an unstoppable weapon.

"What is a child doing…" the man murmured under his breath, taking in the pitiful form cradling itself on the ground.

A ruff and gruff hand, which smelled of spicy and intestines, of earth and blood, went to grab his shoulder.

"The scar…Harry Potter?" Snape murmured. "What are you…Dumbledore found you," his voice didn't come out of his mouth, but Harry didn't need it to hear. "He did, didn't he? Lily, he found your son."

"Well?" his voice was cold, ashen and grey. "What are you doing down here, boy," he hissed. "Come to play a prank?"

"No, no," Harry mumbled. "The voice called," he weakly whispered. "I didn't want to follow."

"The voice? What voice? There isn't any voice…where did Albus find him? He looks…underfed, scrawny." The words remained unspoken.

"Stand up or I will levitate you," Severus whispered coldly. "You're on the floor of the dungeons without shoes? Do you want to catch a cold before the lesson start?" no tone of concern found its way through the man's throat.

"I'm sorry," Harry whined. "Sorry, sorry for being Potter," he added. "I'm sorry."

"What are you blabbering about?"

"They were mean. They were stupid. They were bullies," Harry croaked out, "Please. I'm sorry. I apologize. For them, I'm sorry. Please."

Severus had to admit, the grip of the eleven years old in front of him was surprisingly strong and cold as it latched on to his hand and simply _didn't let go_. He didn't know what was going on, nor what the Potter's spawn was talking about. Maybe he did have a fever, but how had he ended up walking all the way into the dungeons without even a single painting kicking a fuss or calling the nurse…

How had he gotten there to begin with? He doubted Dumbledore would have left him unguarded —not after barely finding him by the scrape of the neck with the castle's owl.

He tried to free himself from the child's grip, but it was useless. The grip wasn't just strong, it was desperate. It was a grip people who were about to die would use in holding their wands in a final act of defiance. It was the grip of despair, dark and pure.

"Don't let me go," Harry whispered. "Please don't let me go down there," he whimpered. "Not there, not in the dark, please. It calls, I can't answer. It wants, I can't give. It demands, I can't deliver. Please. Please don't let go."

Severus gripped back. He didn't know what the child was scared about. He didn't know what called, or what he heard, but he knew he wouldn't get anywhere. If this was an elaborate prank, he couldn't see it. Not after the way those eyes, Lily's eyes, looked at him with such a supplicant plead for help that made him feel just like that night, that very night he had been the one begging Dumbledore.

No eleven years old should plead in such a way to some stranger barely met to hold their hands, in the middle of a dark and cold dungeon.

"I promise," Severus whispered with a croaked sound, "I won't let you go down there."

Harry nodded meekly, and then crumbled in a heap of tired muscles and flesh, his form quivering as it fell asleep.

Severus didn't let go. He could have levitated the boy back upstairs, but that would have meant letting go. He didn't let go. He pulled the boy up in his arms and brought him upstairs.

He swore, when he found Dumbledore, he'd ask what the hell he was thinking, letting a scared eleven year old walk around without shoes in the castle when September was coming around.

A creak, a crack, a whip, a snap, a lingering hiss reached his ears for but a second. Severus' head turned sharply, but he saw nothing in the darkness. He frowned, and then began to climb. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but for the first time since he was a young kid scared of the dark, the steps he took were two by two.

**Author's notes**

**Lovecraftian world in a nutshell: Humanity is worthless. The Gods act upon their design, and humans are just like the 'fleas' on the speck of dust in a corner. They are practically meaningless. The 'Elder Gods', the 'Ancient Ones', the 'Old Ones' are all type of gods/demigods…and they act on…more dimensions. Human sees Cthulhu (the most famous one), human goes nuts because he cannot **_**understand**_** Cthulhu. It's like…**

**Live all your life in a **_**box**_** of red and blue without knowing anything else. Suddenly, someone brings in a **_**Green Sphere**_**.**


	3. Atlach-Nacha, Spinner in Darkness

The Eyes

Chapter Three

It dripped.

The drop fell.

_Plink_.

There was silence. The noise picked up. A raging typhoon sang. The forest's floor whispered. Tendrils and roots snaked their way across the dead and rotting leaves. A loud neigh of fear accompanied the galloping madness of the beasts.

The skeletal horses looked like underfed monsters from an abyss long forgotten. They sliced the grass with their wicked fangs and gleaming claws. Their bat-like and leathery wings flexed and twisted. Their cold and uncaring eyes narrowed on him.

Why had he gone in the forest?

The forest called. His steps echoed loudly in the pitch-black darkness of the night, save for the moon's light that artificially fell through the cracks of the branches. A skittering mass of legs and furry limbs ignored him, scared and afraid of everything that was and was not around Harry in that moment.

Many things looked at him, and when he stared back with eyes that weren't his, they stopped gazing and began running. They were smart. They didn't try to dig deeper. They shouldn't.

A dog barked loudly, a sound of heavy rumbling footsteps reached his ears.

"Arry!" the groundskeeper was a giant, strong oaken tree of a soul. His appearance uncouth and unclean filled with the very same strength of blood that belonged within the creatures that steadfast held the line. In his own way, the man was simple. With his own means, the man was strong. A pink umbrella shined a bright neon light of the same colour across the forest's path, casting long shadows that hissed and clicked their distaste for the light.

Everything hated the light. No one hated the dark. At least, no one that knew that light and dark were but two of many more states of light that could coexist.

Harry winced. He didn't want to know of what stood in the firm nick of fissures and crevices that crawled in the air. His skin itched from the flies and the maggots that found their way near him, slithering across the floor like tiny ants searching for food and prey. His eyes, bright green, closed when the light nearly blinded him.

"Arry! There ye ar!" Hagrid bellowed, holding Fang by the scruff of the neck. The big dog was inches away from barrelling into the boy and really, he was so tiny and gaunt Fang would probably confuse him with a bone. "Yer scaring the castle going out at night like this!"

The half-giant breathed in and out heavily, "Yer alright?"

"They called," Harry whimpered. "I looked."

"Uh, would you look at that," Hagrid muttered, "Ye shouldn't worry. If yer feeling something touch yah, it's the Thestrals. You're surrounded by a flock of them."

"I know," Harry croaked out, "I know," the reply came as Harry began to tremble and shudder. "I know. I know. I know and I don't want to but I know."

"Ah, ye can see them?"

"Yes," Harry said. Among other things that slithered their way through the fangs and horns wicked and curved of the Thestrals' true appearance. Devourers of flesh hidden in eaters of grass, feeders of souls and torn limbs scattered in their breeding grounds. He didn't want to know…but he knew.

"Thestrals are a bit special, but they're really docile," Hagrid said, "Nothing to be afraid of. Sure, they ain't pretty, but they don't bite."

They only ripped and tore.

"Ye think ye looked enough around? Professor Dumbledore's mighty scared you left your room. He's curious how you did it too. I reckon you took after your dad. He always managed to leave the castle whenever he wanted."

Hagrid's long and heavy trench coat fell ruggedly on Harry's shoulders as the half-giant picked him up with a single scoop of his giant right arm. "There ye go. Now let's go back in the castle. There's going to be hot chocolate and I reckon they'll probably make some cake."

Harry gazed back, at the creatures whose shining eyes looked back with a glint of curiosity. It spun in the dark, the border between dream and reality faltering with every web woven and every inch closer to the other side. The chasm would fill with time and screams, and what lay beyond would come through the very minds that slept and dreamt.

He had dreamt to walk, and he had walked. No walls, no defence, no hidden power could stop the dreams.

"Mister Potter," the firm voice of the elderly warrior held disbelief and a hint of relief, "You are going to be the death of me, like your father before you," wrinkled skin and tender eyes hid behind the façade of stern. "Really," professor McGonagall sighed, "You're already making my old heart beat too much. Hagrid, if you'd please bring him in the infirmary? I'll warn the other professors we found him."

The nurse was old and had seen much. She had not seen as much as him, but she had seen enough sadness and blood dimmed her eyes and curl her lips into a form of slight grimace. "I have the feeling this will not be the last time I see you in my infirmary, Mister Potter."

"Now, Poppy," Albus said, entering the room with his bright yellow suit on —he knew Harry apparently liked it very much, judging by how his eyes lit up at the sight of the colour. "Boys will be boys, but Harry," the old man's voice turned towards the young eleven years old. "You understand you scared everyone? Why were you in the forest?"

"I dreamed," Harry mumbled. "So I walked."

"Uhm, I know of more than a few wizards who slept-walk their way into embarrassing situations, and a couple even managed to sleep-cast spells," Dumbledore inclined his head to the side. "I never heard of anyone managing to apparated out of one of Hogwarts' rooms however."

"I didn't," Harry whispered. "I slept."

Albus raised his right eyebrow. "I am inclined to believe you, child. Was there something in the forest that caught your interest? You could have asked to visit it in the morning, Hagrid here would certainly have agreed to give you a tour."

"Course I would've Harry," Hagrid nodded vivaciously. "Yer just got to ask."

Harry just looked from Dumbledore to Hagrid, his eyes blank.

"Listen, my boy," Dumbledore pressed on. "I want to know…are there things at Hogwarts too?" his voice was low, "Like in Arkham?"

The green eyes of the boy flicked back towards Dumbledore, and then the most horrendous sound that the man had ever heard emerged from Harry's throat. The boy laughed. A cold, uncaring and unsympathetic laughter shook the boy and left his body doubled in two from the pain as the bony hands gripped his chest. He wheezed out every inch and drop of laughter, before gazing at Dumbledore with the most serious expression a child his age could muster.

The expression chilled Dumbledore's very blood to ice.

"They're _everywhere_. You just don't _see_ them." Harry giggled. "They'll know when you see them. They always know."

"What are they, Harry?" Albus asked, "Are they…evil?"

"What is evil, professor?" Harry inclined his head to the side. "What is good? They are not Evil. They are not Good. They simply _are_."

The boy shook his head. "Don't ask. Don't look. Don't understand. They'll know. You're a speck of nothing compared to…to…to them. Don't look. Don't gaze. Don't seek the abyss that all consumes and all devours."

The boy's body began to tremble, his bony hands moving up and down firmly against his shoulders. Blood splattered from his very skin as it turned raw and began to shred right in front of Albus' eyes. The old wizard emitted a startled scream of surprise. His hands went to grip at Harry's limbs to stop the boy from shredding his own muscles…

There was nothing. There wasn't a drop of blood or a tattered bit of cloth.

Harry made an awkward smile. "You see, professor," the boy whispered with a childish voice, "You _see_, now."

Albus' heart stopped drumming in his chest only when the third cup of hot chocolate found its way through his stomach and in his veins. He could hear his blood rush through his body, and he found himself guiltlessly pouring a good dose of sherry inside his fourth cup. Poppy's gaze was accusing, but Albus didn't mind the stern look.

If it had been a magic spell, a magic illusion, he could have understood. Yet, what he had seen hadn't been a curse, it hadn't been some sort of trick or accidental magic. It simply had been.

It simply…was.

His hands felt warm as he gazed into the murky brown depths of the chocolate. There was a single, small ripple in the surface.

A bright green eye popped out from beneath the mug, and it gazed at him with a twinkle so similar to his own.

Harry gazed at him without eyes.

He looked without sight.

There was no one else in the room.

Albus took a deep, calming breath. His eyes opened, and then popped out of their own sockets.

"Albus!" Poppy gazed at him, "You old fool, are you going to have a heart attack? Enough with the chocolate already."

The Headmaster of Hogwarts nodded, slowly letting go of the cup and turning his head to gaze at Harry, whose twin green eyes looked back at him with a sad look.

"I see," Albus whispered.

How he wished…that he didn't.

For the spinner spun the web in the pitch-black darkness, but Albus Dumbledore was still a lucky man. He saw…but he did not hear. He did not touch. He did not feel or taste.

Harry did not have that luck.

**Author's notes**

**I'm sort-of presenting characters as they come. Sorting Hat is going to be funny!**


	4. Hastur, He Who Is Not To Be Named

The Eyes

Chapter Four

Snarling saliva dribbled down the chin. Whispering dread twisted in the depths of the eyes. Harry looked and didn't want to. Among them stood out the creatures that weren't and were. He walked alongside the Yellow Man for a brief moment, and the next he was inside the shop.

"Oh my," an old and kind voice said, "What strange and forbidden things you bring into my shop, Mister Potter."

Ollivander had sold many wands to many mages. He had seen many things and done many more. The dusty air of the shop was second to the whispers that came from the wooden stick, each harbouring a core of something that once was living or still was.

"You have come for a wand," Ollivander said. "Normally, the wand chooses the master," he added. "In this case, is it perhaps truer to say that the wand called it?"

"It's cold," Harry murmured. "Everywhere I go it's cold and unsettling."

"Ah, my child, say no more," Ollivander smiled. "What you need is a flame," the man hummed as he headed towards the wands. His old and long fingers moved across the dusty boxes. "But more than a flame, you need a sturdy shield," he added. "Something to grip and that holds true even in the direst of moments."

"They'll just make fun of it."

"Of course they will," Ollivander replied. "Then again, if you point your wand at things you have no means of defeating, what else do you expect? There is a time where battle has the odds against you, and a time where battle simply is nothing more than slaughter and carnage."

"So why?" Harry asked.

"Because my child, even when you know things you aren't meant to know, you still find comfort in other small little things. A blooming fire can light the heart of even the coldest of tundra."

Ollivander's hands moved deftly, taking the wand out of its box. He gazed at it for a moment, before nodding. "I say, you are the easiest customer I have ever had the pleasure of doing business with, Mister Potter…and I am glad you will probably be the only one for quite some time."

The wand felt warm in Harry's grip.

"Eleven inches, Holly, Phoenix Feather," Ollivander said. "It calls strongly, doesn't it?"

"It calls," Harry mumbled back. "Do you hear?"

"Oh yes, my child, I do," Ollivander sighed. "I wish I wouldn't, but I do. Do not let me hold you. The wand is a gift. What heartless monster would I be, to let a child brave the world without a torch and a shield?"

Ollivander's eyes gazed out of the dirty window of his shop. "But remember, I gave you a torch not to let it shine the things hidden in the dark, but to blind your own eyes from what truly lurks behind."

"Thank you," Harry whispered. He held the wand in his hand and made an awkward smile. The next moment, he walked out of the door and was gone.

Ollivander didn't say a word. Doors were nothing less than gateways from one side to the other, and what was and wasn't didn't have such a trifle thing as 'space' to define just where one door began and another ended.

Albus gazed at Fawkes, his phoenix, with a tearful and bloodied sight. Tears fell down his eyes that he had smashed to a pulp and that the phoenix had cried upon, to restore. "Stop, please Fawkes I beg of you, stop," tears of blood and salty water fell from his torn eyes. "Let me do this, please."

The phoenix cried louder, flapping its powerful wings.

"I don't want to see, I have seen enough. Please Fawkes, please. I beg of you…I cannot stand this any longer."

How could a child survive seeing such things? How could anyone manage to hear them? Their voices were mute to Albus' ears, but their terrible presence…why had he tried to glimpse in their minds? Why had he tried!?

HE SHOULDN'T HAVE TRIED:

HE DID.

HE SHOULDN'T HAVE.

The door of his office creaked open. He turned his eyes covered in blood and watched as something that resembled Harry —but wasn't Harry— gestured with a wand to the side of his eyes —which weren't his eyes.

The thing spoke and he couldn't hear…but he understood what he had to do.

"Ah, I see, I see…" Albus mumbled, "I see! I _SEE_!" he picked up his wand, slowly bringing it to the side of his head. Fawkes screamed and cried, trying to move away from his perch.

A flash of light, and Fawkes was a squabbling little chick in the middle of his old body's ashes.

"Sorry Fawkes, my dear friend, please forgive me," Albus mumbled. "This I have to do. This I have to do. I've seen enough. I've seen too much. I thought. I though afterwards there was the great adventure. Fool. Babbling fool. Stupid fool. I saw. I saw. I SAW AND THEY SAW THAT I SAW." Dumbledore laughed. "I SAW. I shouldn't have seen but I did. Poor child, poor Harry. How? How can he do what he does? I can't. I saw…I don't want to see…"

Dumbledore looked upwards, to a ceiling that wasn't a ceiling and that showed him beyond the stars and the quivering masses of gods crying out for entertainment among the drunken flailing limbs of tattered skin and rolling tentacles and horrid putrid flesh.

"Enough," Dumbledore closed his eyes, and yet he saw all the same. "Enough…"

Dumbledore spoke two words.

There was a flash of green light…then, silence.

Minerva McGonagall walked into Dumbledore's office, wanting to warn him of Harry Potter's return. When the gargoyle stepped aside and she entered…she let out a sharp and fear filled shriek.

Dumbledore's body stood nailed to the wall among the portraits of the previous headmasters, his robes tattered and broken apart. His bones twisted and protruded from every limb. His eyes bled copiously, dribbling down his robes and onto the ground. Blood soaked words spread around his body.

_**I have seen the dark universe yawn.**_

_**There is no great adventure waiting.**_

_**I can live no more. **_

_**Things are worse for the living.**_

Minerva screamed until her throat ran dry and the rest of the staff ran in the office. She screamed until Poppy drowned her in calming draught and forced her to sleep. Yet, even in her sleep, she screamed.

**Author's notes**

**Harry has a wand.**

**School hasn't even started.**

**Yes, there is an overarching plot. **


	5. Cthulhu, The Call of The Dreaming Dead

The Eyes

Chapter Five

Albus Dumbledore's funeral was a quiet affair. The whispers of his suicide or of his murder rose throughout the crowds and the newspapers. Yet school had to start, and start it did.

Harry Potter stood in the last compartment of the train. He had dreamed himself there, and there he was. No one else was in that small, dusty and last compartment of the train. No one could reach it —the train always had one more carriage than required, always for the extra passenger that might come midway.

Outside the glass panelled door small trickles of water dribbled down, the wood turning darker and darker as Harry's eyes turned to the window. A light sheen of vapour covered it, the countryside quietly passing through. There wasn't a sound in the compartment.

There wasn't a whisper. If not for his breath and drumming heart, nothing but the most maddening of silences would be within that compartment. The murmurs began as the sun's light died out behind a dark cloud. Water passed through the keyhole.

_Fhtagn._

"He sleeps, he sleeps, he's not awake. He sleeps," Harry murmured. "He sleeps down in his house at R'lyeh. Deep dreams he sleeps of madness and fear. He does not wake. His body lumbers. His body sleeps. He is dead in mind and body and yet he sleeps."

He pointed his wand at the door. "He sleeps," Harry hissed. "Go away! He sleeps!"

The water bubbled.

"I said he sleeps! Go away!"

The door cracked.

"He sleeps in his house at R'lyeh. The great god Cthulhu sleeps. _Cthulhu Fhtagn! He sleeps!"_

Fire gushed out strong, blinding Harry with its light as it burned the rotten door and boiled the water. The flame soon extinguished, leaving behind nothing but unscathed wood and a _completely_ _normal_ door.

"He sleeps," Harry croaked. "He sleeps and forever shall he sleep."

He lowered his wand, and then returned to gaze at the countryside passing him by. In the shadows of Scotland's meadows bones of pure white and souls of the lost waved at him as he sped by. The trees' shades hid the lurking darkness of beasts and monsters alike.

The door rattled open. "This is the last…oh," a girl's voice reached his ears. "I'm sorry, have you seen a toad?"

Harry looked at the two who entered. The girl had bushy brown hair while the other held a round puffy face. "Neville lost his," the girl continued, gesturing at the boy behind her. "I'm Hermione by the way," she continued.

Harry looked towards the ceiling, and brought his hand forward. Trevor the toad fell down in his hands with a wet thud, emitting a little croaking sound as it stayed still in Harry's hands.

"Trevor!" Neville exclaimed, relief clear in his voice. "Thank you! Was that magic?"

"No," Harry replied quietly, offering the toad to the puffy boy, who grabbed it and put it in his robe's pockets. "I would get rid of it," he continued. "It's not safe."

"Ah, I know a toad isn't permitted at Hogwarts, but I hope they'll make an exception," Neville continued. "Uncle Algie gave him to me when they found out I wasn't a squib."

Harry inclined his head to the side. "I would get rid of the thing inside uncle Algie," he continued, "It's not good when it tries to kill you."

"Well…" now Neville turned uncomfortable, "My family thought I was a squib until recently, so I know my uncle tried a bit harder than most but…"

"Your uncle is dead," Harry said quietly. "The thing within him isn't."

Harry turned to gaze at the window. "I would get rid of that toad."

"Who are you to tell Neville what to do anyway? I still haven't heard your name!" Hermione huffed.

"My name is not important," Harry muttered. "I'm insignificant. You're insignificant. He is insignificant. The toad is a problem. He should get rid of it."

"Let's go Neville," Hermione continued, "really, how rude can someone be?"

Harry heard the girl mutter that as she left, the boy following her after giving him one last glance. He turned to look at the window. The skin of his forehead peeled off, his scar appearing once more.

"They all sleep, deep below the sea, forever and ever they lie in eternity's sleep…but can it die what can forever lie? And in strange times, even death may die…" Harry mumbled, before flicking his wand at the door of his compartment, which closed with a bang.

A bloody hand slammed against the glass panel a moment later.

"There's no room in here," Harry whispered. "Go elsewhere."

The hand knocked again, rattling the door.

"This is a room, and it's closed. Find an open room," Harry hissed.

The rattling ceased. The train arrived at the station.

"First years over here!" Hagrid bellowed. "Arry, over here!" the half-giant yelled, waving a hand towards Harry. "I told the professors ye'd be on the train, but they didn't believe me," Hagrid said with a bright smile. "I knew you'd be excited about going on the train, made any friends yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"Don't be shy and make some on the boat then, or in your house at Hogwarts," Hagrid whispered next, "Friends are important Harry, never forget that."

He climbed on a boat, joined by three other children he didn't know nor had seen before. The boat gently rocked across the lake, as Harry kept his gaze low on the wooden creaks of the boat. The rest of the children looked in awe at the castle, or smiled and looked at the moon's reflection in the black watery lake.

Harry looked at the wood bark that made the boats and breathed.

"_Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl Fhtagn_," he whispered to the bark, he whispered to the water, he whispered to the lake, he whispered to the ground. He whispered to the wind, he whispered to the air, he whispered to the clouds.

He whispered and held his left hand against the bark, he whispered and waited, he whispered and prayed. The giant squid heard the whispers and stayed still, its tentacles dropping below the surface of the water as she disappeared within the depths of the lake. The mermen heard and trembled, shutting themselves in their underwater huts and praying salvation to their own idols of flesh and bones.

The centaurs looked up at the sky, gazing with their eyes at the passing of the moon's cycle and the planets.

"The stars are aligned," one whispered.

"Impossible…impossible…"

"It's coming," Firenze said at last. "It's coming."

In the deep dark city of R'lyeh, where Cthulhu slept and lay dead, the darkness disappeared. Someone had turned on the lights.

In the deep bright city of R'lyeh, where Cthulhu slept and lay dead, an inhuman sound that was and was not, that could rend the soul from its mortal coil with the ease a scorching knife had cutting butter, soon emerged.

In the deep bright city of R'lyeh…Cthulhu _dreamed_.

**Author's notes**

**Cthulhu Fhtagn!**

**Please, lose 100 sanity points plus 1d100.**

**The sorting Hat is going to be happy pretty soon.**


	6. Kaalut, the Ravenous One

The Eyes

Chapter Six

"Potter, Harry."

He stepped beneath the clouds that cried tears of blood and pain, among flashes of thunder and lightning bolts striking at the ceiling. For the others, the ceiling had shown the bright moon and the beautiful starry night. For him, it was the thunderstorm and the darkness, the pain and cold suffering of _knowing_ _the truth_ that made the world's cogs turn blindly into a deep abyss of despair and death.

The hat lifted. The hat dropped. Darkness and silence erupted.

"MERLIN!" the hat screeched loudly, wailing as if a thousand burning sticks were tearing asunder his entire body. "FOR THE LOVE OF— MERLIN'S BEARD!"

The scream deafened Harry. "So, so glad I'm a hat," the hat's voice trembled. "So, so, so, so glad I'm a hat," it shuddered. "I'm a hat, no brain, just magic. Thank G— ahem, yeah, those guys, no. Not a chance. I'm not…You stay the hell out of my mind you hear! All right," the hat coughed a bit more. "Where the hell do I put you!? Ravenclaw is _**OUT**_. I'm not putting you in a place of knowledge. You have too much. For the love of Merlin…NO! Not a chance. Gryffindor's courage is something you have learned to avoid," the hat squirmed. "I want a stiff drink after that, but I can't drink."

There was another moment of pure silence.

"Ah, ah…I get it! Well…well…listen kid, hey kid, I have a question kid," the hat sing-sang, his voice murky and bloody-filled. "Hufflepuffs are loyal followers. Slytherin are ambitious backstabbers. Which do you want to be my little darling boy? Answer the call of greatness or follow forever the shackles of loyalty? Answer me. Answer me. ANSWER ME!"

The hat then hummed. "Lalalalalaaaa…I'm a hat, made of magic, lalalala…can't have a soul, can't have sanity…"

"I want to live," Harry whispered. "I want it to end."

"Head in the sand makes for poor followers, sorry kid, but you're destined for greatness then! Well kid, kick in the ass and off you go," this last part, said loud enough for the rest of the tables to hear. "You'll probably die before taking a step on the road to greatness, but _**OFF YOU GO, INTO SLYTHERIN**_!"

The hat removed, Harry gazed around for a moment. The Slytherin table was clapping loudly as Harry sat down on the nearby bench.

"Minerva?" the hat said then, speaking to the headmistress. "Please, before putting me on the head of someone else…do obliviate me of the last five minutes, kindly."

"What?"

"DO IT OLD HAG!" the hat screeched, "Now!"

"Why are you—"

"I said now. Do it. Do it. Do it…I'm not sorting anyone if you don't do it!" the hat twitched and trembled. "OBLIVIATE ME FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN!"

A flick of the wand and it was done and over with.

The hat exhaled. "Uh? Oh right…who's up next for the sorting?"

When a, once more, normal hat sorted the last student, Minerva shakily sat back down at the teachers' table, her eyes trailing Harry Potter's form.

"There's something strange with Harry Potter," she muttered. "I don't want to think he's responsible for what is happening around Hogwarts lately, but…"

"I know," Severus said, his eyes looking at both his godson and at Harry. "I'll keep an eye out on him," he added, gazing down at his own hands.

_Please, don't let go!_

"Thank you, Severus," Minerva replied. The woman then stood up, ready to speak to the assembled students.

"I bid you welcome at Hogwarts. Sadly, Professor Dumbledore could not see the new school year start, but he is certainly with us in spirit, watching over the students old and new with his grandfatherly twinkling gaze. I say to the new students, welcome. I am Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. To the old students, welcome back and know that indeed, I no longer hold the position of transfiguration professor."

McGonagall turned to gaze at a tired looking man wearing an old worn out robe. "Professor Remus Lupin will take over my subject. It is not, however, the only change. Professor Severus Snape will take over Defence Against The Dark Arts, while Potions will be taught by Professor Horace Slughorn," Minerva inclined her head the other side.

A chorus of vehement curses rose in the air.

"So now we're going to fail Defence rather than Potions? Bloody Hell!" a Gryffindor exclaimed.

"Shit, we're screwed!"

"But now," Minerva continued, "let us speak of more serious matters. The third floor's corridor on the right of the stairs isn't accessible due to loose stones in the ceiling and floors. It will probably be repaired sometime in the following month but until then students are prohibited from entering said area."

There was a moment of pause. "Dinner may now begin."

Food appeared on the plate in front of Harry. Food that tasted bland and filled with things not meant to be. Harry gazed at the food, quietly.

"My name is Draco Malfoy," the blond haired boy near him said, offering his hand. "I'm glad you're on our side, Harry."

"Y-Yes," he stuttered.

A worm carefully flubbed its way out of the nearby roast, before entering another chunk of flesh. Harry gazed as vermin poured out of the glasses and the potatoes, now nothing less than rotting eggs as the water dripped from the walls. The wails of ancient things forgotten rose from the very foundation of Hogwarts.

Harry closed his eyes and clenched his fists tightly against his knees. The insects carefully crawled their way up his robes and towards his cheeks, crawling they did and crawling they moved, all the way up to his hair. They dropped from the ceiling and they mixed with the food.

Harry opened his eyes, and the food was still there. Everyone was eating; even his plate was full.

Eating was part of life. Did it make a difference if living creatures ate food riddled with vermin, food made with taste, or the dying embers of a galaxy far away? They didn't actually need to be living.

They didn't actually need to be creatures.

They just _had to be_.

There was a small hole of silence, surrounded by an air of deep putrid darkness, as Harry's eyes travelled towards the man with the turban.

He gazed at him and the two stared at one another for a moment, until the man with the turban averted his eyes.

The man clenched his fists.

Harry closed his eyes.

For that night, the things would hunt their new plaything.

He was off the hook. Not forever, not always, but for that single night, the things left him able to sleep.

He slept thus. Repeatedly did he fall asleep in his dreams, dreaming of dreaming dreams made of dreams and dreaming matter, upon a land made of dreams, he dreamed.

A dream.

Better than the nightmares.

Better…than the Dreamlands.

**Author's notes**

**The houses really didn't matter much. They're not the focus of the story.**

**Keeping Sanity above 10 points before the end of Hogwarts is.**


	7. Azathoth, Blind Idiot God

The Eyes

Chapter Seven

There was nothing behind him.

There was nothing in front of him.

Cattle moved. Cattle ate. Cattle moved again. Cattle went to the slaughterhouse. Cattle butchered cried out a long lasting cry of death before dying.

The tears of the Cattle meant nothing to the maddening screams of the mad, blind, deaf and horrible god that lived where none should live and did that which none should do.

He, It, She, They and None worked on the same thing, on scopes and planes beyond human, godly or infernal knowledge atop realities that weren't false nor real.

Maddening, as the words whispered were from the very same rocks he trudged upon, Harry Potter clenched tightly to his books.

He gripped the leather of the covers hastily, clawing with his fingers as if to hold a squirming purulent rotten pustule tightly to his chest. The book held knowledge that he could use and devour, quench his thirst upon and demand for more.

The whispers in the darkness abhorred him.

"All those that go to Slytherin are Dark Wizards," a voice whispered.

"Is it possible? Harry Potter in Slytherin?"

Why care about the houses? PATHETIC FOOLS!

Houses were nothing more than shiny colors made to blind the people of their own stupidity, make them believe in something that wasn't for a shiny cup made of earth's not even precious metals! Points were meaningless glistening jewels, holding no value, no aid against the forces of indifference.

Indifference.

That was the true powerful devastation of truth.

There was not a caring god or a spiteful god. There was a God.

And Indifferent it blasphemously chanter throughout the universe feasting upon galaxies and planes.

Millions screamed and died and merely did the thing lurk beyond a twitch of its purulent skin.

A mere speck of nothingness compared to the vast infinity of the universe.

What could he, a minuscule spit, do?

Pathetic. All of them.

Pathetic.

He entered the classroom. Everyone turned to gaze at him as he sat down on the only free chair, right at the forefront. The professor looked at him.

"Mister Potter! You're fifty minutes late!" Professor Flitwick squeaked. "How come? Were you lost?"

"I didn't seek the right path," Harry muttered through clenched teeth. "I came through all the wrong ones, so that truth could not be found within. Enough wrongs make true out of false."

"Mister Potter…you were late on purpose?"

"My purpose was not to be late, but I was late on purpose," Harry replied. "I had to avoid things."

"We'll talk more after class. At the present, you should try to copy the notes on the chalkboard and see if you can manage the spell. Wingardium Leviosa is a common levitation charm, very useful…"

Harry gazed at the feather in front of him.

The feather gazed back and began to cry. Ripped, torn, and shattered it cried for him for help and aid.

"She wants to go back," Harry stated.

"Who wants to go back, Mister Potter?" Filius was at a loss of words. Maybe the boy really wasn't all that centered… then again, from what he had heard, Albus had taken him out of an _Asylum_ of all places.

"The feather wants to go back," Harry retorted. "You plucked it out and it wants to go back."

"Blimey, Harry Potter is bonkers!" there was a snort and then laughter filled the air.

The windows trembled as the castle's walls shook.

Silence returned. "I will pluck your arm, Zacharias Smith," Harry said softly, "And then I will not give it back."

A cold chill ran down the Hufflepuff's spine.

"Do you want me to pluck your arm, Zacharias Smith? Do you want me to tear your limb out of its socket, watch your flesh rip and the blood spray as your bone cracks," his tongue clicked, "Want me to do it, Zacharias Smith?"

"Mister Potter, I assure you the feather is just a transfiguration. No animal was harmed…"

"Professor," Harry smiled. "Next time, look at what you transfigure," he chuckled. "A rock isn't a rock if it breathes."

The feather twitched. It expanded. It contracted. It shattered. It reformed. Limbs, long and thin, emerged from it as they formed sinews, marrows, flesh, bones and twisted skin that deformed.

It was a feather, but it wasn't a feather.

It had been a rock, but the rock had never existed.

Filius' eyes widened to saucers, as he stared at the indescribable thing in front of him. His heart beat furiously as the small part of goblin that was within his body told him to run, make the tunnel collapse behind him and even go as far as _ditch the gold_ if it worked in keeping whatever it was he was running from at bay.

A goblin never ditched the gold.

He was just a quarter goblin, but he would have ditched the gold in a heartbeat.

Then the feather was back and Filius hitched out in relief.

"Merlin be blessed, holy gold of the saint grail…"

Harry inclined his head to the side, and the feather levitated. The window opened, softly creaking as the cold breeze of September flew inside to catch the feather and bring it outside.

Then the window closed, and Harry turned to gaze at professor Flitwick.

"You shouldn't go back where you took the stone, professor," Harry acquiesced. "It was angry, you see. You really should have brought it back without help."

Filius didn't answer.

He just stared at Harry Potter.

Harry stood up and walked outside. He had to be fast enough. He had to reach the next lesson before they could catch up. If they caught up, after all, then he'd have to find another way around.

The class he left behind erupted in furious whispers and shocked exclamations.

Filius caught his breath, his breath finding a solution to his problems. "Now, now! Mister Potter is just the prankster his father was! Oh my…Well, I suppose that will be ten less points for Slytherin for Mister Potter being late, but twenty-five points for Slytherin for his absolutely egregious work of transfiguration and levitation! My…and all of it without me seeing him move the wand," Filius muttered the last part, gazing at the empty desk where Harry had been a moment before.

The explanation flew across the minds, the words, the speeches…it became reality and was accepted.

The human mind, for all of its flaws, had one thing that excelled beyond all doubt and comparison. It could lie to itself, it could ignore that which was the horrible truth of the world.

Unfortunately, Harry could not close his eyes to the truth…for he saw it, always.

And the truth had sharp fangs and claws, rubbery tentacles filled with teeth and laughed a maddening cackle that held no doubt of its completely inhuman intentions.

But it wasn't evil.

Reality wasn't evil.

It simply was…

Indifferent.

**Author's notes**

**Good. Evil. They are concept for mortal. All is relative.**

**Even Cthulhu.**


	8. Lloigor, One of The Twin Obscenities

The Eyes

Chapter Eight

The lessons were not boring. The library was not quiet. Everything that had to be one way was another. He glimpsed at the broom, held within his hands. He soared through the air, twisting and pulling it as he flew away towards the castle's towers. He could hear the screams and the people left behind.

He sharply turned left, then right. He flew above the highest tower and then back down, letting the wind caress his face as he free fell with the broom. The wood creaked and answered his call, making his entire body twist together with him.

He pulled the top of the broom upwards, and soon his feet dragged across the rooftop he had nearly crashed against. The sun glared its rays high in the sky. Madam Hooch whistled and screamed, trying to catch him with her bony fingers. She miserably failed. He was on a slower, older broom.

She had experience. She had the fastest broom. She was clearly in better shape. Yet she could not catch him. It was like trying to grab the wind, or to hold within the palm of the hand water.

The howling wind roared and shrieked, giggling madly as it toyed with the brooms in a game that to him meant nothing. The flame in the sky burned brightly, the glare enough to bling for just a moment Madam Hooch. A second the woman shouldn't have lost.

She crashed, her breath gone from her lungs, against the wall of the Dark Tower. The broomstick broke into shards as she fell backwards, her mind muddied by the impact. She couldn't properly think, her bones broken and the light coming less.

She landed with a sickening 'thud' sound on the grass.

The students shrieked.

Harry wasn't hearing them at all. He was flying, carried by the wind. It was exciting. Tentacles of air spun him around, like a toddler rocked by a giant monster that knew no reality or disguise.

Tendrils of the sun burned through the air, as he rose high, higher than ever before. The broom creaked louder. He shouldn't have laughed. His very breath, his very hands gripping tightly on the cold wood, they annoyed what wasn't meant to be.

A swatting hand of wind, a strong gust, slammed him back towards the cold ground. It was too easy. Why deliver that which could help? Wasn't it sweeter, the despair that came from flying and crashing to the ground?

Icarus felt true despair not when he saw his wings burn. He did not feel pain when the wax melted or the feathers ignited. He knew true agony when he no longer could fly; when his body crashed, he was already gone. Stolen by the wind, that would have been the possible truth.

Harry just laughed even as he fell.

His heart was beating, the air cut at his cheeks and the unblinking gaze cursed and screamed. Yet he fell, and he enjoyed it.

There would be no release, even as the broom tore to bits and became but wooden shrapnel that dug into his hands deeply. His blood sprayed crimson and strong in its smell. The pain did not wake him from his adrenaline-induced laughter, but he cracked to the point where his lungs, his ribs and his entire being rocked as he descended.

Suddenly, a force yanked him away from death. He struggled against the weight that brought him in the opposite direction. The roars and the gleaming disgusted gazes in some of the creatures watching were evident. He landed softly, held by a pair of strong lumberjack like arms.

He laughed quietly, as the giant face of Rubeus Hagrid —albeit filled with a bit of fear— gazed down at him.

"Arry, are ye mad?"

He chuckled.

"Broom wasn't responding, probably," the stern voice of McGonagall came to his ears. "Was it cursed?"

"It was," Severus replied. "What of Madam Hooch?"

"She took a bad hit, but she managed to deaden her fall," Minerva exhaled in relief as she watched Rubeus let Harry stand on his two feet. The boy looked completely unfazed by the terribly scary accident. At least, in her heart it had been scary to watch such things. The broom had twisted and bucked, before taking straight to the air and towards the sun.

"Who do you think did it, Severus?" she murmured, her eyes glancing to where the Gryffindors and the Slytherins stood, on the other side of the courtyard. They all looked aghast, and probably would require a talking to…but now, she had to ensure the school was safe.

"It requires eye contact to maintain a curse and a counter-curse," Severus whispered. "Anyone with access to a window into the courtyard could have done it, or anyone passing by the hallways. You should ask the portraits if any saw someone stand still by the window."

"Is Mister Potter fine?" the voice of professor Quirrell cut into his thoughts. The man's bright yellow turban shone into the gleaming light like a sort of torch, making Severus queasy about it. "Does he require…something muggle to calm him down, maybe? It might help him reminisce about…home, I think."

"I doubt Mister Potter has much of a need for childish muggle toys," Severus didn't know why his reply came with an unusual amount of heat. "As his head of the house, I will take care of him."

"Of course," Quirrell nodded. "Snakes watch out for one another."

"Was anything the matter, Quirinus?" Minerva asked softly. "Shouldn't you be teaching class?"

"I gave them a self-study period with a…television," Quirrell replied. "They are sixth years. I am sure they can handle and not break it."

"Oh, one of those…a pity they do not work at Hogwarts," Minerva murmured softly. Severus turned sharply away to gaze at the boy, who was dusting off the dirt from his robes as if nothing had happened.

He took deliberately slow but heavy steps in his direction, before stopping short.

"Mister Potter," he began, only for the boy's eyes to stare at him. They weren't the eyes of someone who had been deathly afraid. They were the eyes of someone who had just finished having fun.

He didn't dare to pry inside his mind. There was just a sense of _wrongness_ tied with trying that.

"Would you like a cup of chocolate?" he said, his voice quiet.

Harry Potter said that, not him.

"Why would I require a cup of chocolate?" Severus retorted.

"_You_ were afraid," Harry said, his face in a frown. "You don't like chocolate? I like it, when I try to think about what isn't in there."

"You were not scared by losing control of your broom? You were not afraid?"

"Oh, no," Harry shook his head. "They wouldn't have allowed that. He wouldn't have… well, not much anyway, because he doesn't like it when you steal his fun away."

In a quieter voice, Harry added softly. "It wasn't scary. I saw worse."

The lump in Severus' throat hardened. "Worse?"

Harry just nodded. "I have lesson after this, right?"

"Yes," Severus breathed in sharply. "You do."

As Harry was about to scamper off, completely unscathed, Severus added. "Did you enjoy it? Flying, I mean."

"Of course," Harry replied, stopping for a moment to think. "The really scary things are on the ground…or below."

He scrunched his face. "Or really high above…but in the air, they don't bother much…not everyone."

Severus had to admit it was somewhat surreal. It was as if around them a bubble of sorts had formed, as if the words Harry were saying were meant only for him, as if they were just everyday babble that the others were not caring about.

The boy had nearly fallen to his death, and already Minerva was talking with Quirinus about 'soap-operas'. Already, Hagrid was collecting the brooms in place of Madam Hooch.

It was…

It was as if the air itself was giving them a personal moment of shining light upon a stage in a theatre, and only two actors at a time could recite the tale.

He did not like it.

He did not like it at all.

**Author's notes**

**Lloigor and Zhar, Twin Obscenities. Lloigor ****has the power to control great winds, which it can use to snare and capture any unfortunates who chance upon it.**


End file.
